


to pull the rain out of someone's back

by Ghostigos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autistic Castiel (Supernatural), Codependency, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Episode: s13e23 Let the Good Times Roll, Spoilers, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 22:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15761283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: After Dean's departure, Sam has to endure Castiel's grieving process





	to pull the rain out of someone's back

**Author's Note:**

> ( _i see scars like borders of a country only i get to name — no one asks the landmine to open up_ )
> 
> ny'all i have a love-hate relationship with spn in general, especially the new seasons. HOWEVER, you give me canon destiel angst with castiel on the receiving end???? in MY queerbaiting scooby-doo spinoff????????
> 
> you're on my fuckin turf now boys
> 
> Team Free Will is a certified Mess so additional warnings for past abuse discussions; the dependency tag refers to past brodepedency since sam has been able to detach himself from dean in that aspect, but he sees some similar behavior patterns in destiel, rip.
> 
> also i took some (very generous) liberties with the canon timeline. mary isn't and never was here bc fuck her honestly.

**i. nothing gold can stay**

 

Jack asks you why you're taking this all so well. You just tell him you're used to it.

In hindsight, it was a pretty poor response. You meant to explain that you're just accustomed to bad things happening to you, and it's not necessarily a good thing, but still, c'est la vie. You Winchesters are always discovering new ways to be screwed over; this whole 'Michael-vessel' charade was a chapter in your life you'd _suspected_ you already closed. But prophecies are prophecies; they'll always find a backdoor.

The grief you carry now is worn and tread, and it fits into your skin as easily as a used sweater. Your brother is gone and he's carrying the apocalypse in his body; like you said, expected. There's always going to be a part of you that's hollowed out due to Dean's absence — he carved this void into your heart, it's not something you can forgive easily. But your brother has always been your mother/father/older sibling, and that cavity was bound to get infected eventually.

But despite you're premonition on the subject, there's still a bone-deep ache that your older brother (your former guardian, really) can't be here for you now. So you prioritize Jack's care over your own because he's new to the whole 'Team Free Will missing-in-action' protocol. You know that Dean and him started on fragile grounds (which you have and will _continue_ to scold Dean about because how dare he treat your new son in that manner), but Jack still mourns.

He's doing alright, though, despite being emotionally drained (and physically too, you grimace). He's not disregarding the food you put in front of him; and when he seems too haunted by afterimages of his father or even Michael, you let him sleep next to your bedside — flashbacks stir of when four-year-old you used to have nightmares of fire and teeth and burning women, and Dean would let you crawl into his bed.

Unlike your toddler self, Jack still maintains the habit of insomnia; you have no clue how your brother dealt with Cas's night-owl behavior.

Speaking of.

You'd expected nothing short of a bad reaction when you had to inform Castiel of the news. Michael was too strong, too overbearing, and he crushed Dean's perseverance like a grape between his teeth. When you told him, you were experiencing your own prickling skin and the threat of bawling like you've lost Dean in a shopping mall. The sensation had blinded your recognition of Castiel's own grief.

You do recall that the lights had flickered overhead, but you'd blamed the weather.

It's a haunting irony when Cas tripped over his own feet and you heard him repeat the antonym of Dean's final nail in the coffin:

_No._

It's said with such conviction that the word itself could have been its own bible.

Again, slower and more deliberate: _No._

You shook your head, feeling heat in the seams of your eyes because it's unfair that you have to be Dean's replacement; you have to be strong for everyone now. They're going to pat your head and pity you if you don't get your act together, and you _really_ don't want that right now.

You said, _I'm sorry._

He didn't seem to hear you, with his eyes producing twin reactions: overbearing, white-hot fury, and sorrow that built and retracted like unsteady waves.

The two merged to create a plethora of oceans too deep and stormy that it shook his core; you could see Cas trembling in his oversized coat.

_No, he said..._

He seemed to be in a trance, with restive eyes that aren't really present. You were scared to touch him, so you provided a weak, _We'll get him back, Cas, don't worry._

Your absent reassurance fell on deaf ears. His sprouting grief was the bunkmate of your own; it made it harder and harder to hear him say that Dean wasn't gone, he wasn't Michael's new vessel, no, no, no...

You hadn't encountered a Castiel in blunt denial, not to that degree; you wanted to shake him by the shoulders and snap at him to face the fucking music, because when has moping _ever_ helped you help Dean?

You led him to a stairway so that Castiel's feet didn't malfunction under him; you spotted Jack walking over to help out but you shooed him away. The display was grief in it purest form and you've never met an angel that could safely barricade their turmoil. You didn't want any grace mojo to start flying out and Jack somehow getting hurt in the process.

He settled down with your help, and you gave one last ad-libbed bout of encouragement — probably something about how you'll get Dean back and you'll outsmart Michael, this isn't the first time an archangel has fucked with your consent, etcetera etcetera.

Cas was obviously not listening. His eyes were damply brimmed, and the word 'No' was imprinted onto his gaze like he'd tattooed the word onto himself. Like if he repeats it enough that the word could be a spell that brings Dean back to him.

 

**ii. you can put all the flowers in your mouth that you fucking want, but dying is dying and rot is rot**

 

When Castiel moves — and it's quite a milestone when he does; he sits and stares at nothing for hours on end and he's more like a statue now — he retreats into Dean's bedroom. He locks the door behind him.

After a couple of days, you decide to slam your fist into the closed door; you doubt Dean wants his room rotting with any stiff air when he returns.

— And that _is_ a 'when', alright? Years of catastrophe have whittled you down into a beacon of hope, even when you're unable to plug your optimism into any available outlets. You've seen Dean die enough times to know that he always comes back — will always come back for his family (okay, _usually_ yourself) because all he does, he does with you in mind. He won't abandon his little brother; he'll never leave you to fend off the monsters alone.

It's a shame that there's a foreign part of you that's endlessly grateful for that.

Anyway, Castiel has always been bluntly realistic, if not leaning towards Dean's cynicism. Particularly when you've spotted their venn diagrams melding into a singular circle when the two became an item; they cling tighter sometimes, and draw back together at the end of the day like clingy magnets. You don't want to point fingers here, since Dean is a mess, and Cas is a mess, and two electrons will always produce a negative charge.

It's no wonder this is bogging Cas down; he'll never be implanted with human emotion and he might not even realize there's a healthier form of grieving for a lost lover.

Rowena had sipped her tea with pinky finger extended as you informed her, worriedly, of Castiel's state. She carried her airy physique still when she told you that angels aren't designed to grieve for the temporary span of specific things.

"Poor feathers probably spent all his time on Earth losing Dean," she'd said. "Can't blame him for taking up a saviour complex for that bugger. Gets himself killed on the daily."

"So he's blaming himself for what happened to Dean," you'd tried.

"As one does when your love's whisked away from you right under your toes," Rowena answered sagely, the effect ruined by that ever-present jester gleam she carries. But to her credit, she had appeared a bit sad at the thought. "Final straw was Dean saying 'Yes'."

What Castiel fought so hard to prevent, when all else failed.

"But it was Dean's decision in the end, though," you'd said, and your lung grew barbed. "I thought we all knew it was gonna happen like that."

"Aie, but not to poor Castiel," Rowena said. "My knowledge on angels may be dim, but I know that they were always meant to serve something."

You chew on her words as you continue to knock on Dean's door. It's a hard pill to swallow, so you spit it out and decide to return to it later.

When nobody responds to your incessant calls, you throw in the towel. _He's grieving,_ you keep telling yourself. _He just lost Dean._

 _We always lose Dean,_ a grouchy part of you resonates.

_This is different._

You're departing when you hear the mumbles; your experience with mental derelict has you doubt the sincerity of it first — maybe this separation from Dean is eating at your brain more than you think. Then you realize the origins of the sounds are from none other than Dean's room.

It's raspy and low — a familiar tone. You press your ear to the door, listening:

He's talking in Enochian. It's not meant for your presence, so the pitch is wobbly and stiff. It doesn't sound scripted, as is most of Castiel's speeches with his internal mind-to-text-to-speech generator; nothing direct or impulsive, he's not a blood-born Winchester, after all.

But his tone sounds like he's walking on eggshells in his eulogy. You catch some Enochian grumbles amidst the overstuffed quiet, only blocked by the door's presence. You catch a few words — just 'an' and 'the' and other conjunctions, nothing too telling. You almost want to run to the library to snatch an ancient book off the shelves just so you can attempt an interpretation.

Then you hear, in harsh English: _Father, please._

He's praying.

It's surreal to hear Cas pray when he's only ever glanced at the ceiling or clasped his hands together to declare sacrilege against his Father (and it makes sense, having met the guy...). He's begging, too: you can hear the stilted tone, lacking its usual terseness. He's really desperate, then.

It's a sign of Armageddon when fallen angels pray, you think.

Regardless you leave Castiel to his own devices; he's probably not in the mood to be negotiable. You don't have the heart to defile your own complaints of Chuck to him — if Cas thinks that He'll drop from His high horse and return Dean to you, then you don't wanna break his spirit.

It's kinda comforting that he has a sliver of faith that you don't share.

It could also be argued that if he thinks that Dean _won't_ come back, he'll crumple like a flower with no sunlight. A guardian angel with no one to guard.

You choose not to think about that either. 

 

**iii. what do you shoot at when the monsters isn't a thing, but the absence of a thing?**

 

You'd figured that Michael would have left a hefty amount of breadcrumbs to follow, but it seems like he's swept up any leads you could follow. Tracking him down is close to impossible; you can't exactly file a missing person's report, so you and Charlie have to endlessly grind through potential leads with only Google searches and Charlie's state-of-the-art hackery skills as resources.

Hours and hours of investigation have produced stagnant results; Michael really is a slippery son of bitch, as most archangels are. Everyone's spirits were dampened by the end of the night, but most visibly Jack's. The kid's taken a lot of recent downpours like a champ, so you set up a board game and hope that it'll be a temporary haven.

You're attempting to cheer him up with the enthusiasm of a wet blanket when you introduce him to Monopoly, but you hope it's more than what _your_ father did when you were upset.

The door overhead suddenly slams and reverberates through the mostly-empty bunker. It makes you both jump and immediately abandon the game; you glance above to spot Castiel storming downstairs, footsteps heavy and shoulders stiff and poised.

You cover your shock with a well-timed cough. "Hey Cas, glad to see you got out today," you say, maintaining amiability; it goes unnoticed. Cas doesn't even acknowledge your greeting; his eyes are deathly cold and aimless and you're briefly terrified of being his glare's next target.

Jack asks him curiously, "Where did you go?"

"Looking." It's the first word you've heard him say since his (unanswered) prayer session, and there are coals heated underneath it. You can hear the snap of tension in Castiel's pace as he directs himself back to Dean's room. You don't have the guts to stop him.

You and Jack make the same revelation as you exchange looks. You mouth, 'Dean', and Jack looks a little sympathetic and nods tightly.

Neither of you acknowledge the dangerous glint of the dagger pressed into Castiel's palm, sharp and ready to pounce — his angel blade.

He'd gone out to look for Michael alone.

The air crackles with electricity when you hear a door being slammed harshly shut — no status update on Dean's whereabouts, apparently.

There's no way either of you can return to your game, now that you're both re-riled up from Dean's absence. The bunker's atmosphere is so heavy it's almost suffocating; an old wound is prodded at and you don't wanna tear it open again.

You can't yearn for Dean right now; you can't afford to or you might never stop — it's always kinda been a slippery slope as far as missing your brother goes, unfortunately. Besides, Jack needs you now; your father was a lost cause when your mother died and it left such a bad imprint on yourself that you're _definitely_ not gonna follow in his footsteps if you can help it.

Jack helps you clean up the Monopoly board, and you ruffle his hair when you're done and tell him to go to sleep; that gets a smile out of him.

He goes to his own bed and you retreat to yours, content with solitude. You'll deal with Cas later; he probably won't go anywhere.

It's about half an hour later as you're struggling to sleep when loud crashes in the kitchen break the quiet like glass.

Everyone in the bunker charges out of their rooms with some form in weaponry in hand. You expect the worst, but you also expect the best — _What if it's Dean?_

Your faint hopefulness is snuffed out when you meet Charlie and Bobby in the kitchen; they're watching wide-eyed and confused as Castiel slams various items onto the floor with such force it shakes the walls.

You all back away and discard your weapons of choice and he gives a harrowing roar of fury and fings a metal pot in your direction. Your brows furrow; _What the hell...?_

"Well, we can't just stand here!" Bobby finally cuts in, yelling over the clanking of metal and shattering porcelain. "Someone grab that sonuvabitch and calm him down!"

Charlie swaps a glance with you, and without verbal commencement you both pummel into Castiel's body and clutch onto his arms, pinning him back.

He screams with hot rage, flinging you off with such ease that you have to remember, oh yeah, ex-Angel of the Lord bullshit. Unfair.

Bobby raises a shotgun close to Castiel's head, seeming reluctant to do anything but just stand there and look menacing. Jack ran in with the rest of you but resides behind Bobby with no weapon in hand, looking sheepish without his nephilim abilities.

Charlie holds on the longest, but Cas swivels into drawers and walls like a rapid, angry bull trying to shake off its rider; so, she eventually falls to the floor as well.

"That _bastard!_ " He's furious, booming like thunder; if he were a big cat you imagine his ears being pinned flat to his head and fangs bared. Cas grabs a pan from the floor, blindly thrashing it into whatever is closest — which is the fridge, damn it. _And it leaves a dent, damn it!_ "He risks his life and gives that— that _disgrace_ of an archangel everything he has! Like a _fool!_ "

You and Charlie scoot away from your positions on the floor because Castiel's pace is sharp and dangerous and he could probably crush you underfoot without realizing.

"I gave him _everything!_ " he seethes, his voice transcending into such a guttural tone that it trickles down your spine. "And he thinks he can just— _leave_ me like this!!"

He pummels the blade tucked up his sleeve into a nearby wall, cracking it open and leaving cobwebs of _concrete_ -based material engraved into the exposed wall. Jesus...

"Like my sacrifices have been nothing but _fucking useless_!!"

Jack's eyes are wide and glistening as he clutches onto Bobby's arm, who's still poised with a shotgun but seems reluctant to involve himself. It takes you a minute to realize that everyone's eyes are locked onto you, hunched in the corner of the kitchen like Dad's been drinking again and you're five and Dean's not here to protect you from the smashing of pans and loud, explosive screams.

They prod you onward silently, like, _your move._

So, the ball's in your court now. Fan-freaking-tastic.

You're not five anymore, so you dust your pants off as you stand and advance towards Castiel when his back is to you. He's near Charlie now, and he's blindly reaching for the angel blade that's still stuck in the wall. And that _definitely_ gets your gears turning.

So — Plan B — you divert attention from Charlie and try to negotiate the fuming angel. "Cas, you gotta calm down—"

He whirls around rapidly at your reproachful tone, and his eyes are — shit, it better be the lighting that's making his pupils so bright and pierced, or else you've kicked up a nasty beehive. His jaw is clenched and locked; he doesn't look like he properly sees you at all.

Palms raised out, you try again: "Cas, I know you miss Dean. I-I get it, but you gotta—"

"You don't 'get it', _Sam_ ," Cas snaps, spitting out your name like poison. Shit, it's not the lighting that's making his eyes glow, then. "Don't try to sympathize with me! How _dare_ you act like you know what it's like to lose the one you've spent _years_ protecting from _this!_ " He gestures madly, but you get the gist without clarification.

The dagger is still in his hand and now it's pointing towards you. Shit shit shit......

"Your brother is _everything_ , do you understand?" Castiel screams — actually _screams_ , like his voice is an octave higher — "Dean Winchester is the only good thing to come out of this horrid mess and I will _not_ stand by as that _thing_ walks in his body like he has any right to touch him!!"

"Cas—"

"You _never_ had what we had, Sam! And now he's gone and I promised I would always come when he needed me and I— I _can't find him_ , Sam! He's gone and I might never see him again— _and none of you even care!!_ "

He lunges.

You can't dodge from this attack since Cas has his arms outstretched and they lock you into place. You stiffen your muscles as you hold him off, your line of vision watching the angel blade grow _dangerously_ close to your neck area. But, you notice, he's not using full force.

He could crush you fairly easily, as he's informed you — he just growls and pushes you around right now in a weird dance around the kitchen, like now that's he's got you he's in a compromised state, because _now_ what??

Eventually your strength wanes under the consistent pressure and your arms falter. Cas's punch explodes across your face; the sensation fills your side with sparkling pain and for a brief moment you see stars as you crash to the floor.

_Shit..._

Castiel looms over you like a predator teasing wounded prey, and from this angle the shadows are too etched onto his face for to catch any glimpse of emotion outside of his pupils, which are just narrowed blue lights that are searing into your corneas.

You want to think — pray, even — that this is just Castiel outside of his right mind; that this is still a mourning angel. But you've never seen Cas as anything other than 'slightly terrifying', so this evaluation offers no conclusive results.

He hesitates to move — maybe he's pulling the reins in a little? Either way you're still frozen in place — but then his figure dips into a solemn demeanor. His muscles unclench and loosen under clothing like an uncoiled spring; you realize a bit too late that he's falling.

You move out of the way slightly but extend your arms because Cas is still a friend, and friends don't let friends fall onto cold, hard-wooded floors smack in the face. His entire weight crashes into your ribs, but from an ajar angle you're able to save his skull from cracking open, so you're relieved, if not breathless and a little bit annoyed if you're honest with yourself. Castiel _did_ just attack you.

His declarations of grief and anger sink into your brain slowly. All the things he said, all the sharp exchanges; that was honestly the most honest confession of Castiel's current state, and straight out of his own mouth no less. He's not taking Dean's disappearance well at all, and for the exact same reasons you'd feared. He thinks he's failed Dean.

"Well!" You all turn to see Rowena in a fluffy robe, with her hair messy from sleep and her face painted with a green mask. Her fingers are faintly outlined like she's just snapped, like they've just emitted a spell. "Lovely thing to wake up to, eh? Seems that feathers really did a number on the kitchen, but I still expect a thank you."

You process what just happened, dimly, and you all mutter in reluctant unison, "Thank you."

Rowena gushes at your gratitude regardless, ignorant of the collapsed angel in your grip. "Now, if you want any magic tricks that don't involve frogs or hypnosis, I suggest that you don't bother waking me again, yeah?"

She twirls around and walks out, and with sudden haste you all maneuver around the wreckage and attempt to carry the angel back to his room. Bobby scoops up Castiel like he weighs nothing, bidding everyone a good night, and you and Jack and Charlie huddle on the floor, Cas's words still hanging in the air like he's released a toxic poison over the bunker.

Jack ends up moving back into your room that night.

 

**iv. there is an exhaustion that comes with living in an embrace like a vice**

 

The only physical reminder of the fight is a bruised cheekbone; it causes a slight hassle if you aren't paying attention and touch your face with weight in your hands, but you'll live.

It's the only _physical_ reminder, anyway.

You and Charlie have both been bleeding your Internet sources dry with finding Michael and you've had, as Charlie worded it, 'zilch' success. Adam, Kevin, and Eileen have all promised to keep their eyes and ears open from their ends, but that's about all the updates you've heard from them. It's been at least a month, and you've deemed it appropriate to start worrying like the rest of you.

Castiel hasn't come out of his room — nope, _Dean's_ room, and the fact that he migrated back there in the first place pisses you off even more than the fact that you can't tell the difference anymore — since the encounter; or at least you don't _think_ he has, since he can teleport to god-knows-where at the drop of a hat, and the sound effect of flapping wings has long since left the picture. So maybe he does still sneak out when you're not paying attention.

Still. You've known Cas for a decade, and you've never seen him become so vibrantly enraged at a losing hunt; you're not sure whether this will badger his fight-or-flight reflexes more, but given the context you're betting that the lack of Michael in your searches has slandered his will to keep looking.

You've always kept a sharp head in midst of chaos. You thrive in deadlines and curtailed amounts of time before the crack of response is required. You're resourceful as hell and you know it; these skills are needed for Dean, they're needed for _you_. Unlike _some_ people, you're not allowed to shut down anymore.

Cas has never fully shut down, not from what you've seen. He's had that loony phase, sure, but even then he still had that spark of ambition for getting jobs done with the right motivation. Dean is gone, and now that side of Cas appears to be smothered. It's not hard to connect the dots.

 _Angels were always meant to serve something,_ Rowena had said.

Bullshit. Castiel should know by now that Team Free Will serves no one but themselves and each other.

Still, it doesn't get better, even with your foresight on the subject. And if Cas can somehow control the atmosphere, the bunker dampens under a pressured raincloud, unseen but pregnant with thunder and ready to burst open. You feel the heat in the air, the stagnating sorrow about to pour; the others do too, you can notice their postures change and the lines of stress curling their expressions as you type and read and demand answers to your brother's whereabouts.

It's Charlie that acknowledges the elephant in the room first. Her eyebags bend into her skin from sleepless nights — Dean is absolutely gonna buy her a drink when this is over, you'll make sure of it — and she slaps her book shut. You're all on the verge of cracking under the tension emitted from Dean's closed door, so you all snap upright with twitching heartbeats.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," she says, standing up to leave.

The thought is such a drastic outlier of the norm that you only reply with a dumbfounded, "Who?"

"Who do you think, dumbass?"

Oh. _Duh._

You don't know why you're immediately on the defense line of Charlie's decision, but the first thought you have is that it could be 'risky' to interact with Castiel now. Like you've stated, angels are shit with emotions since they're naturally incompatible with them, and you've never seen Cas in such an exposed state of mind. There's still a high probability of something going out of hand (again).

"I'll go with you." Jack settles from where he's settled beside you, as your brain catches up with your hands that have grasped hastily at his sleeves.

The whole group stares at you like you've done something bizarre; you provide an awkward cough as you reluctantly detach from Jack's clothing.

"Guys, hold it," you say — unnecessarily, since you already have everyone's full attention, "I get that you're worried about Cas, but...maybe we should let him figure this out on his own time?"

Bobby scoffs from behind, polishing some weapon that you can't see from where you're sitting. "Yeah, what do you _think_ he's been doing, son? Holing himself up in his boyfriend’s room and tossin’ you around like a ragdoll? Yeah, sounds like he’s doin’ himself just fine.”

“I just don’t know if poking him into working is gonna him out, Bobby,” you protest, feeling a bit rattled for a reason you’re unsure of.

“I’m not gonna _poke_ him into working,” Charlie says. She spins towards the direction of Dean’s room, short hair bobbing and twirling with the beat of her internal drum. “I’m gonna hug the _hell_ out of him is what I’m gonna do!”

You’re still frowning deeply, but Jack escapes your sight the moment he eludes your peripheral vision, joining Charlie as she saunters down the hallway. You call out to him but he’s in that pre-teen rebellion stage of ex-Nephilim youth, it seems, so he pretends not to hear you.

You turn to Bobby with upraised brows, as if you want him to spout some words of wisdom that’ll stop Charlie and Jack in their tracks. But your response is a similar pair of raised eyebrows that mirror your own, and he shrugs like, _The hell do you want me to do about it?_

Exasperated, you’re mentally tugged along on the journey thanks to Bobby’s lack of answers. You give him a sardonic “Thanks for the help” over your shoulder.

“Give ‘im a kiss for me while yer at it, will ya’?” is your reply, sounding amused.

Silent, you follow Charlie and Jack down the corridors, seeming darker and damper than usual; you’re not sure whether it’s your imagination or not, but the fact that the moment you find Dean’s closed door, the mood shifts and dips into the floor like you’re weighted with a liquid metal. It drips dread into your bones and you’re thinking about going back, but…

Cas has been absent for many meetings now, and a lot of dinners at the table. Even if he doesn’t eat, it’s a bit endearing to have him present (to “bless the food”, Dean would joke, and you all pretended it wasn’t funny but the way Castiel scrunched up as he processed the delivery was what made you snort).

Charlie knocks, giving out hesitant calls to an unresponsive answerer.

Jack teeters on his feet, perhaps feeling the unwelcome air more than you do already. But you’ve come this far, and you can handle another punch if you need to.

She knocks again, but this time her face changes. She presses an ear to the door, then asks aloud, “Do you hear that?”

You immediately jerk up. “Hear what?”

“That.”

You strain your ear, watching the lightbulb flicker over Jack’s head as he hears something that you don’t; you end up moving closer to the door, and you finally process the steady creaks of the mattress and the feigned, wounded grumblings of Castiel.

Immediately you feel called to action, so you bust through the door that wasn’t even locked.

The scene before you isn’t necessarily harrowing on its own, but you feel unnerved regardless, watching Castiel slumped over and coiled around himself, bouncing on his butt and heels as he’s curled on the top of Dean’s bed. He’s rocking back and forth, emitting some monotoned buzz from his sealed lips, looking extremely pale.

On its own, you recall a patchy memory of a younger Dean, huddled in the corners of the house that were commonly untouched, so no one would see him peel away his valor, his pride, and you have often found him in these darkened areas with a cyclone of screams and curses in lieu of a greeting.

You step away for a minute, feeling that fossilized misplacement seep over into the present; you feel like you’re violating something sacred, like a snake shedding its skin or someone changing into new clothes. The rest of you is just unsure that you’re fully understanding the scene in front of you: Castiel, the absolute strongest angel you’ve ever come across (suck it, archangels) trembling and brimming with tears that you’ve never seen shed from his eyes.

Charlie reacts first, oddly.

She swoops to Castiel’s side, and you watch her face twist with an outpouring of raw anguish – like Cas’s despair is coating her own soul like oil over water. She reaches forward, murmuring softly to him, but when her hands touch his own, Charlie retracts with a pained hiss. You and Jack both immediately jolt into action, advancing towards the scene, but Charlie halts you.

“It’s okay!” she promises, voice still hushed. “He just…shocked me.”

You’re unsatisfied, and Jack’s gaze contorts with pity at seeing his father continuously rocking, fists bunched together near the front of his knees; you’re not sure if Castiel even know you’re here.

“What’s the matter with him?” Jack whispers to you.

You can only mimic a response with opened lips, but no answer comes out. You don’t want to draw attention to the fact that you’re very unhinged at this situation.

Cas just hums.

Charlie tells you, “Grab me those blankets.” She points to the floor where Dean unceremoniously tossed out old laundry in the corner. You make a sidenote to nag him about it later, but you do as instructed. Even though they’re matted and gross, Charlie accepts the blankets without complaint. You’re about to ask her what she’s doing when she encircles Cas in the cloths, wrapping him tightly in the makeshift cocoon.

You and Jack are a bit offput, so Charlie explains as she finishes her work: “I think he might be overstimulated. I had this friend in college that would get like this and it’d help if they had pressure applied to their body, y’know? Better than nothing.”

It’s a new hypothesis introduced, having you calculate the new formulas, the new methods of action. From experience, Dean and yourself have never liked physical contact in times of distress so you’re a bit handicapped here; Charlie seems to have the upperhand and you’d hate to disrupt her actions.

She squeezes Castiel’s hands continuously, and you decide not to worry too much about how her mouth will twist with hints of pain; maybe it’s an angel-equivalent of getting shocked after being on a wool carpet?

Jack moves forward with some personal task at mind, even though you reach out to stop him. But he sits beside Castiel on the bed, getting a nod of approval from Charlie as he does so. You feel like a bit of a background prop right now, standing tall and useless at the doorfront, but when Castiel starts sobbing into his kneecaps that’s when you feel called to react.

 _Castiel has NEVER cried_ is your first thought, and it’s paralyzing to see this entity made of starlight and God’s grace be reduced to a crippled, tearful mess all because your brother said Yes.

Your second thought is, _what would Dean do._

There are so many emotions catching up to your body like a sucker punch: shock, devastation, sympathy, confusion, anger. They radiate through your heart severely and without mercy all at once as you reach for Castiel, calm amidst your inner whirlpool of thought and heartache.

You have all wrapped your arms around Cas as he breaks in your hold, roaring inhumanely at the wrongness of it all, and in that instant the shared grief quakes your own skin, bone-deep and nerve-twisting. The echoes of a purpose lost and a lover as good as dead; a sentiment you never knew you could be the cousin of.

Your hands shake; you think you’re saying something about how it will all be okay and how it’s okay to cry, something that Dean would say in the privacy of a room as Dad was outside the closed doors and immune to your tears. It worked then, even as you grew old enough to differentiate between sugarcoating and truth.

You’re not sure what blind comfort will do to a millennia-old being but if anyone has any better solutions, you’re all ears.

Alongside Charlie and Jack, you hold onto Castiel like he’s a lifeline, hushing him with gentle lips and hands that bind him, keep him anchored into Jimmy’s body; you’re half-afraid that he’ll dissociate the fuck out of his vessel, if he’s not too careful.

Eventually the downpour passes, and you feel Cas regain strength again; his body stiffens rather than wavers, and eventually the sobs subside too. You still hold on, tightly.

“We miss him too, Cas,” Charlie says, ridding the ambience.

Castiel looks up again, refocuses on you all like he’s seeing you for the first time. Looking into you, your souls, your hearts. You hold tight against his gaze, looking back just as firmly.

His eyes well up with pity when he spots the bruise on your cheek, which you’re quick to defend. “It’s okay, Cas,” you promise, then joke, “It’s not the first time I’ve been punched, believe me.”

Even if the joke doesn’t land, you feel a bit lighter at seeing Castiel reunite with the world around him again, slowly but surely; he bores his gaze continuously into your own and even though you’re beginning to feel a bit awkward, you’ll sustain it.

He says, finally: “I’m sorry, Sam.”

His voice is hoarse and lodged in the throat, and the crippling defeat behind it is so unnerving.

You shake your head. “It’s okay, Cas, I promise. It doesn’t hurt—”

“No.” He looks downward, to his fingers locked in Charlie’s hands. “I should have stopped him. I should have been more forceful in my wording, so that perhaps….he wouldn’t have—”

His voice cuts off direly, as he sucks in a pained breath.

“That wouldn’t have done anything, Cas,” you murmur. “We both know Dean is a stubborn asshole…he would’ve done it even with you pinning him back.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything.

Charlie rubs his shoulder slowly, and you see Jack wrap the blanket draped across his father’s backside a smidge tighter.

“Dean saved us, Cas,” you say firmly. “Lucifer is gone and when we get Michael outta Dean’s body, he’ll be gone too. We’ll get our happy ending, I swear. You just…you have to trust us, Cas. Please.” His flits a sidelong glance at you, here, and you repeat: “Please. We can find Michael but you gotta help us.”

“We’re really close,” Jack inserts. “D—Sam and I have found some good leads to where Michael could be headed. Dean might be manipulating him into seeking out other bunkers…or something like that.”

He trails off and fidgets in place, as though he’s misspoken. But Castiel perks up again, looking somewhat recharged with this information. His eyes are damp around the rims, but brighter and fastened to the present.

“That could be the case,” he agrees weakly. “The last thing that Dean would want…was for us to be in danger.”

He chews on this for a moment; the air around you feels engulfed in a fresh, cooling breeze after a bout of humidity. You know that this is Castiel’s doing.

And you watch as he resurfaces, still rigid and still deathly monotone, obviously in mourning, but firm. Someone you could picture falling into the heavy depths of hell to save a few lost souls with nothing but a sharp blade and batting wings.

He turns to you and says, “Thank you, Sam.”

You all reach in for a mandatory group hug, and Charlie giggles as the angel is still firm to hold, but out of pure discomfort rather than detachment. You grin as well, exaggerating your size over the group with extended arms that pull everyone in a little tighter, making your companions squawk with delighted protest.

You hear a little quieter, tucked into your chest: “Thank you.”

 

**iv. and if the sun never comes up, you find a way to live without it**

Castiel doesn’t get better overnight, like you want him – _beg_ him – to. In fact, you’re incline to suspect that he might not get better at all…at least, not as better as before. Even if Dean comes back, you think things will be different.

You’ve observed Cas’s character like it’s a smooth stone in your hands, flipping it over and over in your palms and studying it from different angles, and you’ve reached a half-assed conclusion that maybe Castiel isn’t like the rest of you at all. No _shit_ , of course, but the fact that he might never meld into mannerisms and understandings of human culture like his siblings have – well, then…then that’s okay, you suppose.

You just want Cas to sleep at night, if he’s able.

(Or, have the equivalence of that, since he doesn’t sleep?? If he could look at you with clearer eyes, that’d be a good substitute, you suppose.)

You’ve caught him swiping at his angel blade a few times, twirling it in his palms or even giving the tip a petite chew. You want to stop it because daggers scream ‘danger’, and there was a time where Dean got too comfy when the blade pressed against his own skin – but Charlie stops you before you intervene. She says it’s okay, and he’s just “stimming”. She says her friend that would do this if they were overwhelmed, and it’s helpful.

You trust her.

It helps that Cas will appear in the backdrop of the room when you and Bobby are analyzing methods of your next attack, should Michael come forward. He’ll sometimes tilt his head in interest if either of you (featuring Jack and Charlie, and even Rowena, at times) say something he’ll deem noteworthy in his own mind, amidst his internal clockwork.

So he hasn’t given up hope on the rest of you, which is good, considering that overpowering Michael will have to involve _everyone’s_ heads being put together to overcome the archangel. But, with Castiel’s silent inclusion, it’s more promising than it was.

You tell him this when you have the chance, when you both have taken a break from Michael-hunting – miraculously at the same time as the other. Sleep schedules (or lack of, you guess, for one member) often intervene with downtime; you made tea for the occasion (courtesy of Rowena’s coaching).

“Hey,” you turn to Cas as you both sit on the couch, steaming mugs in hand, “Thanks for helping out today. We really appreciated it.”

Castiel takes a long sip of his drink, and you recognize that he’s taking a brief interval to measure a response. He gives you a small nod, but his voice catches up with him moments later and you can tell the message is pre-recorded.

“It’s important that we search for Michael and extract him from the host before he can do any true harm,” he says, then adds grimly: “If he hasn’t already begun his reign yet.”

A bit ominous, but you’ll take it. You provide a clap on Castiel’s back, watching his attention shift to your hand grasping his shoulder.

“Dean’s a fighter,” you tell him,” so I doubt Michael is getting too far into any evil plans he might have.”

Castiel’s mouth creases, then he complies with an, “I suppose.”

You want to pry, you really do – Cas is an equation you could never find the proper textbooks and calculations for, and you really wanna know what he’s thinking of right now – but Castiel switches back to his mug and drinks again, providing a heavy intermission.

It’s large intervals like this that continue throughout the investigation, and while it is an upgrade from Castiel holing himself up in his lover’s room 24/7, it’s still a pit stop on recovery. The mutual understanding between you both, largely unspoken, reflects a similar yet different loss. Your friendship serves only as a median for the inevitable, providing neither closure nor advice on the matter.

But Castiel works harder than he did before, and when he breaks out his blade and chews on it as he flips through pages of old books, you decide that this is its own form of recovery.

And when he casts a smile down on Jack one day, and fluffs his hair in the same manner that he’s seen yourself perform multiple times, you decide that it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> [title](http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/post/112116622801/to-pull-the-rain-out-of-someones-back-to-do-it)


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